If Only I Could Make a Deal with God
by Rhea Carmen
Summary: [Warning: Major Character Death] Scott is tired. He just wants everything to go back to how it used to be. What if Scott did end up lit himself up with the flare? (set in episode s03e06 Motel California)


**If Only I Could Make a Deal with God**

The title is from 'Running Up the Hills' song.  
Un-betaed, this is a rushed work and my first language isn't English so I'm sorry for any mistakes and awkward phrasing. I appreciate it if anyone points them out. Comments are highly welcomed.

Enjoy!

* * *

The grief kept weighing him down. Wolfsbane or not, Scott McCall was so guilt ridden to the point he thought that his death would correct the world. So many people had died—friends, enemies, bystanders—and Scott couldn't fathom how he got caught in this war. He wanted to blame it all on Peter—or maybe even Stiles for dragging him out of his house to search for a body—but no one was really at fault here, no one else but himself. Whether he was an omega, a beta, or a possible-alpha, nothing had changed but his responsibility. He held more lives in his hands now, had people looking up to him, had enemies who wanted him dead, and while he didn't want to let anyone down, it felt so easy—to just die, disappear—run away from all of those.

"There's no hope," he had said. And he meant it. He was an emotional person, the kind who lead with his heart than logic, and he didn't believe he had it in him to stop it all.

"People keep getting hurt, people keep getting killed," _because of me_. Him changing into a werewolf meant that everyone near him—everyone connected to him—were in constant danger. He could never break the vicious cycle—he might had defeated some enemy today, only to fought another one at the end of the week. His life was full of thrills, danger, and suspense, and he dragged everyone near him down.

"What if doing this is actually the best thing that I could do for everyone else?" he had considered this often. It wasn't some wolfsbane-induced thinking. Scott had honestly contemplated about death for a while—as early as when Derek betrayed him by killing Peter.

"We were…we were nothing. We weren't popular. We weren't good at lacrosse. We weren't important. We were no one, no one at all," and right now, Scott would give up his life if it meant that he could be no one again. To simply worry about his asthma, his homework, his game scores against Stiles. There was nothing he wouldn't give to go back where the only important people in his life were his mom and Stiles. It might have been a little lonely, but that would be better because no one would die because of him.

"Scott, you're my brother,"

Something inside him broke, then. Stiles' words ringing in his ear.

"So if you're gonna do this, then, I think you're just gonna have to take me with you, all right?"

And Scott knew Stiles meant it, every word. He didn't lie, he'd die with Scott. And this was the problem, too many people laid their lives for Scott. Too many people entrusted him with their dying last words.

And all he could do was to smile and hug his brother.

"Thank you, Stiles, thank you…" Scott whispered against Stiles' earlobe. Scott's whole body trembled and his sobs were clear and loud, so Stiles held him tighter while his tears dripped silently. "I'm so sorry…"

Suddenly, Scott took several steps back, so quick that Stiles barely recognized that Scott's soaked body had left his embrace.

"Scott…?" Stiles could hear the confusion in Allison's voice.

"Goodbye," was all Scott said to the three of them before the flare touched his clothes. The fire rapidly enveloped Scott's body as it grew to his legs and the tip of the fire sparked another fire on his neck.

"NOO! SCOTT!" Stiles screamed out and dashed to him, but Lydia—with tears streaming down her face—tightly held on his jacket.

"Don't…" her broken voice said.

Scott didn't scream. He just let out an agonizing, anguish-laced howl that made Isaac, Boyd, and Ethan run out their room and leaped to the parking lot.

"LEMME GO! NO! SCOTT! SCOTT!" Lydia and Allison now held on to him. Stiles trashed around, tears and heat prickling his eyes because he was close enough to touch Scott's left arm. His hand burned and he need to, but couldn't, pull Scott into his arm—no, Scott was resisting him, he had enough mind to resist Stiles' outstretched hand.

Isaac howled and lunged to the burning Scott. Boyd run back to his room and soaked the room's blanket in water before he ran out again and threw it on them. Ethan quickly pulled Isaac away so that the blanket could completely cover Scott. Stiles fell down to the asphalt and crawled to the lump of the blanket, raw hands painfully scraped the ground.

"Scott… Scott, please… Scott…" Stiles muttered as he opened the blanket. He quickly turned his head and tried to throw up as far away from Scott's body.

Ethan walked away. It was not his place to be there. He'd be sure to thank one of them for saving him, but right now, he let them be.

Boyd stood aside. Scott was a good friend, they had their differences, but Boyd respected him. But right now, it was also not his place to grieve him, not when Stiles, Isaac, and the girls were so much closer to the man. He slipped back, giving the room for the rest of them, and yet unable to averted his eyes. Boyd stood and stared intently on the fallen comrade. This death by self-immolation was not going to be in vain, Boyd promised to himself.

The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Lydia and Allison managed to keep their nausea at bay, but that was mainly because they didn't see the body. They stood still on the same spot, wanting to rid away everything—the smell, the flare, the fire's radiant illumination, and the howl.

Isaac's eyes retained their gold color, fangs out and ready to tear Ethan again. But he has no will now, not when his dear friend lay motionlessly on the cold ground. He blamed Ethan. He blamed the Alpha Pack. He blamed Derek for killing his friend. He kneeled on Scott's other side, scrunching up his face as rage and sorrow poured out of his every pore. He gritted his teeth as he cried for Scott. He grabbed on to the body tightly, unconcerned with all the blood and the flesh staining his clothes. His clothes were charred, anyway, and the skin beneath it already healed despite his rage.

And Stiles grabbed his friend. Wailed on top of him.

"No… Scott, no, please… no… don't leave me, please," Stiles sobbed. Part of Scott's face wasn't completely burned, and from there Stiles could see his whole face again-not this horrendous melting flesh.

There was no heartbeat. Nothing. The night was silent and the air was completely still.

Stiles cried harder.

* * *

They were back in Beacon Hill already. After an exhausting day of informing Melissa about her only son's death and hearing her wailing so horribly, Stiles just couldn't simply go home, not when he was sure his dad already knew about Scott. He just wanted to be alone for a moment to lament in self-pity party. His clothes still smell of gasoline, stained with blood and his hands were already bandaged. He just wanted to remember Scott, calling out to him to his heart content, screaming out his name, blame somebody for his death, basically letting out his grief and rage. So, he went to the only place that was empty (and also a place where he could trash everything around him because he was so damn pissed at Derek).

Derek's loft looked empty, which was what Stiles had hoped for. He went upstairs and when he got there, he just opened the ratty door as wide as he could.

"Stiles," Derek greeted. He stood in the middle of the room wearing only long pants and smelled like soap.

Stiles stood frozen. His mouth opened and closed a few times but words didn't come out. His lower lip quivered, rage bubbling inside him.

"Stiles?" Derek was confused and terrified now. The kid's hands were bandaged, there was a faint smell of gasoline and death, and he could practically taste the tang of blood.

"How could you be FUCKING ALIVE?!" Stiles screamed out, it was rough and scratchy. Stiles run towards the older man and tried to punch him, but Derek got ahold of his hands. Stiles squirmed and thrashed around wildly, feet trying to kick him. "YOU FUCKING ALIVE?! HOW DARE YOU?! LET GO OF ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" Stiles was screaming out as if he was throwing a tantrum, tears and all. Derek was dumbfounded and didn't expect this reaction. He let go of his hold and let the younger male hit him.

"SHIT! WHY ARE YOU FUCKING ALIVE?! GODDAMMIT! GIVE HIM BACK TO ME! FUCK YOU! GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!" the sheer force of Stiles' rage pushed Derek down to the floor. Stiles kept pounding on Derek's chest and slapped him before soft hands pulled him away from Derek.

"Mr. Stilinski! Derek is still hurt!" when Stiles saw the teacher clad only in a towel and looked at the whole room and the state of the two of them, it clicked in his mind.

"Let go of me, bitch," his voice was dangerously low, one that Derek haven't heard before. Jennifer looked taken aback and actually stepped back.

"Stiles! What the hell?!" Derek finally able to ask the question. How could he when all Stiles did was look at him then pounced on him while screaming like a madman?

Stiles stared at Derek now, his eyes focused on the reason of his best friend's death. His own blood stained Derek's chest and he looked down at the tattered bandages on his hands. He glared at Derek with tears still flowing down. Derek wanted to make a joke about it, but the heavy atmosphere felt oddly suffocating.

"If I had the power, I would fucking kill you right now, Derek," Stiles spat out as if there wasn't enough hate laced in the words. Derek realized that he was serious, his heartbeat didn't indicate a lie. This actually just annoyed Derek.

"What's wrong with you? Why are you here?" Derek occupied Stiles' space, but Stiles didn't back down, he even welcomed it.

"I was here to have a pity-party and maybe smash all of your belonging because I'm pissed at you," Stiles let out a wicked smile, "Good thing the real person is here, not _dead_ ," there was a gleam of sadism in Stiles' eyes, and Derek wondered what had happened in a day.

"What's going on?"

"I'll fucking kill you, you bastard! Can't you just let us know that you're _alive_?! A simple text was fine, even. Why didn't you just texted us? Why?" There was an unreadable expression on Stiles' face. Derek was pissed now and he pushed Stiles on one of the pillars.

"What. Do. You. Want?" Derek growled out but Stiles just laughed. His legs lost their strength and he slid down, still laughing maniacally. Derek was totally confused, and he looked at Jennifer (fully clothed now) and she only shrugged her shoulders.

"Stiles?"

"What I want, Derek," Stiles looked up with tears in his eyes and a fake smile that didn't reach his eyes, "what I fucking want right now is for you to turn back the time to yesterday and texted any of us that you're still alive," he looked down, "that's what I want. That's what I want, Derek," Stiles' voice was soft as he pressed his palms against his eyes. The tears couldn't stop now.

It actually saddened Derek to see Stiles so broken. "Did something happened while I was away?" he asked quietly.

"Scott's dead…" it was barely heard, even with Derek's werewolf's hearing.

"What…?"

"Scott is dead, Derek," Stiles stood up again, wanting to look at Derek's eyes as he told him, "Scott is fucking dead because he was hopped on wolfsbane and so guilt-ridden that he had let you die, that he thought the world will be a better place without him. He killed himself, Derek. He sets himself on fire because he was blaming himself for your death, while you are obviously not dead and having the time of your life," Stiles spat out. He looked down at his hands and remembered the heat from the fire that engulfed his best friend.

"You're…kidding…right?" Derek finally understood Stiles' rampage. _WHY ARE YOU FUCKING ALIVE?! GODDAMMIT! GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!_

And Derek suddenly felt very cold. He looked at the blood on Stiles' clothes, _Scott's…?_ He looked down at Stiles' burnt hands, _Scott is…dead? Because of me?_

Stiles sobbed, "Why couldn't you just send a text, Derek…" and the both of them felt broken beyond repair.

Suddenly, Stiles' eyes were on Derek's. "We're done now. You can take back your pack members, though I doubt any of them would side with you after they've seen Scott _burning_ ," he hissed out the word, "You can deal with the supernatural by yourself now. I'm out." And he walked to the door.

"Wait, Stiles—" Derek grabbed his arm but Stiles quickly pulled it.

"Don't touch me," Stiles' eyes were empty, devoid of any emotion. "We're not friends, Derek. Don't contact me anymore. Don't even try to attend his funeral. Don't show your face, Derek." Stiles continued to walk, but stopped again in the doorway,

"Goodbye," he loudly and clearly stated, without even turning his face at Derek.

Derek was left staring at the empty door. He had lost everything he held dear in a day. Scott and everything that came with the caring boy; acceptance, friendship, comradery, loyalty, love, and family.

Derek wished he hadn't met Scott.

Derek wished he had picked up the phone and called Scott yesterday.

Derek wished he could see Scott's face.

Derek wished he was really dead.

Derek wished—knowing it was futile.


End file.
